


The Resurrection Ritual

by crystanagahori



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Case Fic, Gen, Mystery, case!fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-11
Updated: 2014-11-28
Packaged: 2018-01-11 22:48:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,408
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1178883
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crystanagahori/pseuds/crystanagahori
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As a birthday gift, Molly and Lestrade hand Sherlock a case. Little does he know, his present is the first of a string of ritual murders, whose point and purpose is yet to be known. Another case fic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Standard disclaimers apply. If you've seen Teen Wolf, then the lore is somewhat familiar here.

_Three hundred and one_ , Sherlock thought, counting the holes on his ceiling, his hands positioned behind his head and his foot bobbing up and down impatiently. He closed his eyes and listened to the cabbies zoom by on the streets below, the chatter of the people creating a dull sound he could only describe as ringing. There was a rustling on the walls somewhere, letting him know that Tony, the mouse he'd taken to speaking to on the considerable number of days he was alone, was having breakfast. He kicked at the edge of the couch, hoping to rouse the thin layer of dust that had seemed to form on and around him.

Ah, the impatience of an addict. Former addict. Sherlock had "slightly" relapsed into his drug habits due to dying (ugh), but with Moriarty's return, going cold turkey had been necessary. It was anything but fun. But now that he was clean (or as clean as John needed to believe) and Moriarty's return had actually been the most phenome- nally dull resurrection Sherlock ever had to tackle, there was that period of time where there was nothing going on. He needed a case. Or perhaps a box of nicotine patches.

"Sherlock!" Mrs. Hudson's considerably loud voice rang out into the stairwell. "They're here!"

He didn't know why Mrs. Hudson still felt the need to make such pronouncements in that Wagnerian manner. Of course he had known that the Watsons had arrived. He heard them downstairs, choosing to add their noise to the ringing in his ear and the absolute bore of the winter cold. No need to get up or get dressed.

"Right," John said, making his way into the flat, carseat in hand, snow still melting on his shoulders. It took him a second to take stock of Sherlock's state on the couch, wrapped up in nothing but a quilt and a zarape he acquired on one of his cases. "Wrong of me to suppose you would put on trousers for this."

Sherlock made a dismissive noise and rolled over to face away from John, like a burrowing ostrich. John left the baby carrier by the door and proceeded to take off his coat, asking Sherlock how on earth Baker Street was warm as an enchilada. Sherlock ignored him.

"Good lord," Mary followed, bundled up in a warm magenta coat with a smaller bundle of coats in her arms. "John, I'm putting her down in your room. Any warmer in here and she might slip right off my fingers. Deal with the other baby, will you, love?"

John made a noise to let Mary know he'd heard, coming back into the living room with a sigh. Sherlock turned to face him like John was forcing him to eat his veg. His friend simply made a face and marched into his room to grab a proper pair of trousers.

"Mary's wearing lipstick," Sherlock pointed out, his voice slightly dry from under use. He followed John into his own bedroom, reminding John of the delicacy of the sock index. "A different shade from usual. Something going on? We've talked about postpartum depression and how its common in new mothers--"

"It's not postpartum, it's dinner," John said, resisting the urge to roll his eyes. "What is the point of making appointments with you ? She dressed up because it's her first night out since the baby."

There was a pause in conversation, followed by the ruffling of Sherlock's clothes as he put them on. "Is there an occasion?" He finally asked, sliding his socks on.

"Of course you don't celebrate it," John muttered, half-talking to Sherlock. "It's only your bloody birthday."

"My what?" Sherlock asked, his back stiff straight as he quickly, deftly buttoned up his shirt. "Oh. It's the sixth?"

"Yes."

"But Mrs. Hudson still has the Christmas lights on."

"She thought it would seem more festive for dinner tonight," John said as his friend shrugged into his jacket. He always forgot how shoddy and unsophisticated he was next to Sherlock bloody Holmes. But no matter. It was his birthday. Being just a tad nicer would be a good enough present from him.

"I don't remember mentioning my birthday to anyone," Sherlock pointed out, slipping into his shoes and following John back to he living room. He noticed the kitchen table was cleared, a stack of plates and trays laid out. Oh god, it was a buffet.

"Your mum might have mentioned something over Christmas," John said, sitting in his chair. "They're coming as soon as their plane lands in Heathrow. Molly and Les- trade are supposedly pooling on a proper present. Rumour has it Mycroft may even make an appearance."

"Since when did we become so domestic?" Sherlock spat out, glaring at the open door of the flat. "Birthdays are just a marker of age. I don't really feel like being told, 'congratulations for not dying, oopsie, too late you already died twice.'"

"Sherlock," John began, keeping in his mind the image of the Great Sherlock Holmes saying 'oopsie.'

"No, not doing it. Tell them I'm busy," Sherlock said, about to grab his scarf and his coat when he froze.

Sherlock honestly believed there was rarely anything on God's green earth that bypassed him, but this...what on earth was this? He lifted his chin, like he was trying to catch it with his nose, that scent. It was a scent he had not had since childhood, one that reminded him of his personal adventures on the high seas, the excitement in the air as Mycroft was coming home from boarding school, the tea his mother would steep especially then he was upset. But that, of course was impossible. Wasn't it?

Suddenly, though not surprisingly, a candlelight glow appeared at the bottom of the stairs. Rousing in an impromptu a-capella to the tune of Happy Birthday, Mrs. Hudson ascended the stairs with Molly, Greg, Mary and little Scotty Watson behind. The candle lit up the whole stairwell, the cake shining from all the royal icing, almost the exact same way Sherlock's 7th birthday cake had. The scent that had arrested Sher- lock was now lingering pleasantly in the air like it was trying to blow out the cold from outside.

"Happy Birthday Sherlock," Molly said with that too-thin smile of hers, and John clapped a hand to his back as a warning and a greeting.

"T-thank you, Molly," Sherlock stuttered slightly (when did he ever stutter?) turn- ing his head slightly. It was the cake. What on earth was in that cake? "Where did you get that cake?"

"Oh, Speedy’s downstairs is selling cakes now," Mrs. Hudson reported in that cheery way of hers. "Gave it to me special when they I told them it was your birthday."

"Many happy returns, Sherlock!" Lestrade said suddenly before Sherlock could scoff at Mrs. Hudson's insistence of dallying with the shop owner. They were all set- tling in the living room, the cake and the food being set in the kitchen. His flat had sud- denly hummed and buzzed with noise and light, the layer of dust had disappeared as Scotty babbled happily in her father's arms, perfectly proper development for a child of her age. The scent lingered in the stairwell but followed its source to the kitchen, making Sherlock feel slightly disoriented and taking a step towards it. "Molly has been searching for ages to get you a proper gift."

"Well, not exactly ages," Molly said, tucking her hair behind her ears. It was a lie if Sherlock ever saw one. The blush on her cheek, the way she couldn't look at him, those were her tells. It fascinated him that no matter how badly he treated her, she still managed to act like a lovestruck girl around him. He had hoped she would have outgrown it by now. "But anyway, here," she said, recovering something from her bag, handing it to Sherlock with a more confident smile.

"You have to promise not to start on that until tomorrow," Lestrade said. "But hopefully it will take you a while to figure out."

A case. Molly and Lestrade had given him a case file. How entirely un-domestic of them, Sherlock thought, fighting to curl his lips into a satisfied smile. His excite- ment was absolute. Given Molly's expertise in the field, she would know when a body was mangled enough to warrant study. Lestrade would have conveniently failed to solve it, bless him.

"Thank you, Lestrade," Sherlock said, nodding to the Detective Inspector in a seeming salute. He turned to Molly.

"When will you learn to hate me, Molly Hooper?" He asked her. The question was serious, the tone only slightly playful. In spite of the end of her engagement and her discovery of his relapse, she simply smiled back.

"Never," she said, finally and absolutely. “You can come see the body anytime you like during my shift. Lets have cake, shall we?"

Ah yes, Sherlock thought, his sweet tooth getting the better of him as he smelled violets in the icing. in the air. Cake. Now more than ever, he was determined to find out how on earth a baked good reminded him of the violets in his father’s garden back home. He could hardly afford sentiment nowadays. Look where it got him. (Dead. Shot. There are worse things.) 

* * *

True to his promise, Sherlock waited until the next day to open up the case file. John had come over to pick up the serving trays Mary had left behind last night. Being a nurse at a 3-doctor surgery gave her less flexible time than her husband, but John was more than happy to play house on his days off. Charlotte Scott Watson wasn’t a huge fan of the surgery-provided creche, preferring to spend her days strapped on daddy’s chest when he wasn’t out solving crimes.

“Oh god, did you put the liver in Mary’s tray?” John asked from his place in the kitchen, putting the clean trays away in the boot of his car while Sherlock watched Scotty. It still baffled John how a high functioning sociopath like his best friend managed to be so good with kids. He and Molly nearly blew their gasket when Sherlock first asked to hold baby Scotty. Mary claimed she knew he had it in him all along, pointing out that babies were much easier than people.

Cleaning out the tray and reentering the living room, John had to pause for a moment to watch the scene unfolding on the couch. Scotty was sitting on Sherlock’s lap, her bright blonde hair leaning against his long torso, her pacifier placed securely in her mouth. She was turned toward her godfather, her small and chubby fingers holding a death grip on Sherlock’s shirt. Scotty’s bright blue eyes were rapt with attention, looking at the file Sherlock was reading aloud to her.

Where was a camera when John needed one?

“MP Forrest Walter,” he said in a clear voice, enunciating so Scotty could try to mimick him. “One of the oldest of the members, found dead in his home yesterday morning. Cause of death can’t be determined because his heart was sliced out of his chest...oh, that’s impressive. Here’s a photo.” 

John snapped out of his moment when he heard that last sentence. “Sherlock,” he said with grit teeth. “Are you reading a case file to my daughter?”

Both Sherlock and Scotty looked up at him like they were surprised that he was still there. Sometimes it irritated John how attached Scotty was to her godfather. Sher- lock looked down at the baby and closed the file while she reached for it with her hands, opening and closing her fist.

“Please. She can’t understand what I’m saying let alone realize she was looking at a cadaver,” he said, placing the file on the coffee table and standing with Scotty in his arms, bouncing her a little to make her giggle and drop the pacifier on the floor. “It’s good for her language development and visual recognition.”

“I will tell you what’s good for her language development, thank you very much,” John said, plucking his daughter from Sherlock’s arms, Scotty naturally wrapping her arms around her father’s neck. “Now, you were saying something about a heart?” 

Sherlock grinned a little. Good to know some things never changed. He was about to continue when the winter wind blew into the apartment in a loud gust, banging the door open and making Scotty jump in surprise and cry. Sherlock turned his head toward the offending wind like he wanted to strangle it with his bare hands, but paused when a smell followed. It was spicy and strong, an undertone of rich, dark chocolate following. It was...seductive to say the least. It reminded him of the woman, the way she managed to arrest him and bore him at the same time. His hand twitched and he shook his head, as if willing the smell away.

“Leave Scotty with Mrs. Hudson,” he said, grabbing his coat and scarf. “Ask Lestrade if he can take you to the crime scene.” 

Then he marched out the door, leaving John bewildered. “Where are you going?” he asked.

“To see a man about a cake!” Sherlock replied, thundering down the stairs and out the door. John looked down at Scotty, who didn’t seem to notice that Sherlock was gone. He sighed.

“Why did we have to name you after him, hm?” He asked his daughter, bouncing her a little as he went downstairs to see if Mrs. Hudson could watch her for a bit.

* * *

It took Sherlock thirty steps to get from his door to Speedy’s, and if anything, the smell had gotten stronger. He entered the cafe with a sweep of his coat, turning this way and that. The owner, who seemed all too self-satisfied to be a serial adulterer, greeted Sherlock kindly and asked after his birthday cake.

“It was fine, where’s the chocolate cake?” He asked distractedly, studying the pas- try case. No chocolate cake to speak of. The owner seemed surprised.

“Oh, Addie’s just sliced it in the back,” he said with a jerk of his thumb. “Should I get you a slice, Mr. Holmes? On the house.”

Sherlock blinked in confusion. No matter how good his sense of smell was, no way he could have smelled that, especially in this cold.

“No, no thank you,” he said, about to leave when a gasp came from one of the tables near the kitchen. He turned just in time to see a young girl, no more than ten years old, pop up out of her seat and approach him. She was more than unusually tall for her age, her deep black hair swishing about her face like stiff ribbons, her cheeks still red from the cold outside. Sherlock turned to her.

Recently orphaned, judging from the state of her eyes. Just came from outside. Pupils dilated , yet focused on me, meaning she’s more than keen to talk. No way to get out of this one.

“Are you...Sherlock Holmes?” She asked tentatively, though he knew that she knew the answer to that question. He decided not to grace her with a reply.

“Oh my god,” she said, seconds away from bouncing off the walls. Her eyes, if possible, grew even wider.“Your scarf’s a little skewed, your coat collar tucked in...were you in a hurry to leave your flat?” 

Sherlock blinked. He hadn’t expected that.

“My name is Ariel Danes, and I am your biggest fan,” she declared happily, extending a hand out to him. Sherlock scoffed.

“That’s quite a declaration, Miss Danes.” He said.

“Oh but it’s true,” a new voice said, finally emerging from the kitchen. “I don’t know how many times I’ve caught her trying to grow bacteria cultures in my fridge.” Both Sherlock and Ariel Danes turned to the source of the voice, standing by the kitchen door.

“But Adelaide,” Ariel argued, purposefully lengthening the vowels in her name. “It’s SHERLOCK HOLMES.”

Sherlock turned to face Adelaide, whom he quickly identified as the cake maker. Chocolate on the side of her lip, nicked a taste of her own frosting. He thought to himself. Bags under her eyes indicate an unusual amount of stress. No ring, not married. Detached earlobes, almond eyes, brown hair, shares no features with Ariel. Not her daughter. Ariel was left to her by her mother, recently deceased. Burn on her wrist means she can be clumsy, comfortable shoes means she’s on her feet all day.

Then she laughed, bringing Sherlock out of his deductions. She stepped towards them, patting Ariel’s head affectionately before smiling up at Sherlock. Then he realised, all those scents, the ones that led him to the cafe in the first place, came from her. It was in her fingers, her smeared cheek, her lips. It sounded illogical, but he knew he was right.

“Good to meet you at last, Mr. Holmes,” she said, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “Ariel visits your website daily. Can you really tell a woman’s eating habits by her perfume?”   
Sherlock was about to open his mouth when Adelaide interrupted.

“I’m sorry, rude of me to just barge into your fan meeting,” she said, giving Ariel a look. “My name’s Adelaide Evans, and my ward will just kill me if I don’t give you a slice of cake.” 

So that’s how he ended up sitting at a booth in Speedy’s, a fan and a baker across him, scarfing up the second slice of cake he’s had all week. That was more than he had scarcely allowed himself to have in years. When he was high, nothing could satisfy the munchies more than cake, so Sherlock had been wary of the dessert. Until now, that is.

“Adelaide’s cakes are amazing, aren’t they?” Ariel gushed, her wrists on the table as she just seemed to drink in the sight of Sherlock. “She doesn’t need a recipe or anything, she just bakes them when she can’t sleep, which is all the time lately. Classic sign of insomnia,” she said, saying that last sentence while looking at Sherlock like she was asking for confirmation.

“The scents,” he manages to say. “Disturb my work.”

Adelaide raised an eyebrow at the sentence, but didn’t say anything. Obviously not the first time she’s heard that. Ariel, however, picks up something else.

“Please, can I see your experiments, Mr. Holmes?” She asked. “I read on your blog you were working on the viscosity of bodily fluids, I would give anything to see that.” 

Sherlock, clearly pleased that Ariel had proved herself more than just another member of the Empty Hearse (or his ‘little fan club’ as everyone insisted on calling it), curled his lip into a smile. “Sorry, not when I’m working on a case,” he said like he wasn’t sorry at all. “I should be going to the crime scene.”

He stood up to adjust his collar and his scarf when Ariel actually sprang up from his seat. “Can we come?” she asked like Sherlock was going to a theme park. “Please, Mr. Sherlock, can we?” 

Obviously, Sherlock loved an admiring audience as much as the next drama queen, but experience told him that he ought to look to the next adult in the room for confirmation. Adelaide looked at her ward with much amusement, smiling as well. She looked up at Sherlock, standing.

“We promised your Aunt Ro we would come to her place by seven,” she gently re- minded Ariel. “ We can probably stay for ten minutes.” 

“You actually want to come along?” he asked them incredulously.

“Yes,” Adelaide and Ariel answered simultaneously as Sherlock stepped into the cold. He eyed the two warily. Although having extra heads (extra distractions) at a crime scene was never a good thing, he felt like there was more to be found out about these two. Adelaide, especially. He was going to find out how she made those cakes. It was like another case. John could call it the Cake Conundrum in his blog and be done with it.

“Alright, but only if you don’t touch or say anything.” 

“Brilliant! See Adelaide, I told you today was going to be a good day!” Ariel chirped as the cabbie pulled up in front of them like she was having the time of her life already. Adelaide merely smiled down at her and then at Sherlock. 

* * *

MP Forrest Walter, although minor, had been the oldest of the members of Parliament. A former soldier, Walter was known to have policies as strict as Maggie Thatcher, and a particularly mean streak to him. Everyone chalked it up to loneliness, the man was never once attached to anyone officially. His colleagues still couldn’t decide if they would be upset over his loss or not.

MP or not, the circumstances surrounding his murder was more than interesting to Sherlock Holmes. Leaving Adelaide to handle the introductions with Les- trade and John, Sherlock made a beeline to the living room of the apartment, where the blood pool was still present. Ariel had sucked in a breath with the thrill of being in her first crime scene, which made him grin. John had a similar reaction a few years ago.

“Lot of blood,” Lestrade said right away. “Heart was cut out here.”

Right. Time to deduce. He did a brief walk around the living room, stepping over the blood. He made a few noises as he observed, pulling out his magnifying lens as needed.

“Would you like to try, or should I just wow you with the answers?” Sherlock asked, looking over at his young guest. She stuttered a little before Sherlock took over.

“Right, Forrest Walter. The dust on every space in his flat suggests he rarely came to this area. He could have hired a maid to clean, but there are dirty dishes in the sink and clothes on the floor, so no maid. No maid, no close family meaning he has trust issues. Nothing is out of place in the room, except for this feather,” he said, picking up a brown and white feather under one of the couch chairs. “Eagle feather, I’ll know more with a reference.”

He walked over to the bookshelf where he pulled out a book on British Birds. “He wears a silver ring on his left hand, but he’s not married, meaning he’s a virgin.” 

“A what?” John asked incredulously. Sherlock rolled his eyes.  

“Don’t be sexist, John, men can wear purity rings too,” he said, looking around the room again.

“He was also gay,” Adelaide suddenly said from where she was standing, making the heads in the room turn to her. She took a step back at the amount of eyes suddenly on her and pointed to a photo by the bookshelf. “The only photo in this entire flat is of himself as a young soldier with a mate. People can be sentimental, but that kind of sen- timent is personal, intimate, especially if he had trust issues. Gay.” 

“Right,” Lestrade said, looking over at Sherlock. “Anything else? Possibly the identity of the killer?”

“No forced entry, so he had to have known her,” Sherlock said. “That much is obvious.”

“Sorry, her?” John asked, looking around for anything he might have missed. Sherlock seemed a little exasperated and pointed to the floor.

“Scuff marks from a pair of heels, judging by the size, she’s about a 40,” he said, turning to Adelaide. “Nobody else has come in wearing heels, so they have to be the killer’s. I’ll have to look at the body before—-”

“And that’s our ten minutes,” Adelaide interrupted, placing her hands on her niece, thanking John, Lestrade and Sherlock.

“I’ll come see your experiments next time!” Ariel exclaimed as Adelaide almost dragged her out of the room, the door closing behind them. Greg and John turned to Sherlock, who didn’t seem to notice that they had left.

“Got yourself a girl from the cafe, did we?” John teased as Sherlock scoffed.

“Shut up and let me do my work,” he said, opening the first page in the book to reveal that it was actually a box, an orange bottle of prescription pills inside. He handed it to John, who read out the name.

“Heart medication,” he concluded. “prescribed by a Doctor Rosalie Douglas.” 

“Ironic that he had a heart condition, given the circumstances,” Sherlock noted. “Judging by the amount of blood, I’d say he was alive when his heart was cut out. The spatter alone is quite indicative.” 

“I did tell you it was a wicked birthday present,” Lestrade chuckled. He took Sherlock’s absent reply as a form of agreement to his statement. 

**End of Chapter One**


	2. Chapter 2

John and Sherlock were back in Baker Street an hour later, the flat pleasantly devoid of distracting scents and sugar. They had just come from seeing Molly and the body at St. Barts, learning nothing but the fact that the killer had been clean and precise with their cuts, meaning they had a medical background. There had been no signs of struggle on the body, which is odd for someone with military training. John was just picking up Scotty from Mrs. Hudson while Sherlock twirled the eagle feather with his fingers, trying to think. What would someone want with an old man’s heart? 

 

He was about to ask John for a pen when loud, purposeful steps of a man with flat feet and a brolly came up the steps. Sherlock barely looked up from the case file spread on his desk when Mycroft Holmes stepped inside. 

 

“One day late, but still, the tweeness is appreciated,” Sherlock said managing not to giggle at the silly word. It felt so foreign on his lips, enough to make Mycroft smirk.

“Don’t try to be cute, brother, it’s not at all becoming,” Mycroft said, standing in his usual spot and looking at his baby brother with the usual amount of judgement. “I take it you’re studying the Walter’s case? Clever of Dr. Hooper to give it as a present.”

Sherlock paused and looked up at Mycroft like he was trying to infer why he was there. But his brother remained an unreadable tome, his face flat and boring. He was always the smart one. 

 

“Oh, Mycroft, I didn’t see you come in,” John said, arriving as he had Scotty in his arms. Mycroft acknowledged John and his offspring with a look. 

 

“Pleasure to make your daughter’s acquaintance, Dr. Watson,” Mycroft said, like was talking to an elderly woman and not a nine month old child. Sherlock made a warning noise like he was losing patience, and so the elder of the Holmses pressed his brolly to the floor and made his point. “I’ll get to the point then. Brother dear, you are to stop investigating the death of Forrest Walters.” 

 

“Need I remind you that I defeated James Moriarty _twice_ and saved the British government from the whims of a dominatrix. I should at least be able to investigate a minor MP’s death,” Sherlock said, his fingers steepled under his chin as he continued to stare at the photos. 

 

“Not when Ms. Hooper has just ruled his death as one of natural causes,” Mycroft said with a grin that could only make him look smarter. He handed his brother a piece of paper from the inside of his jacket. “Coroner’s report,” he said, and Sherlock raised his eyebrows, snatching the paper from his brother’s hand. 

“Natural causes? His heart was _cut out of his bloody chest!_ ”John exclaimed, lowering his voice at the b-word like he had hoped to god Scotty didn’t understand that. 

 

“The ink on this report has barely dried, and this isn’t Molly’s handwriting,” Sherlock said, scanning the paper. Sure enough the letters lacked the trademark hearts over the i’s. Mycroft shrugged it off like it was one of those things. 

“Did it ever occur to you that Miss Hooper could actually outgrow such flourish?” he asked his brother. “Say what you will about the report, the signature on the bottom is authentic. Walter’s death was _not_ murder.”

He had to give his brother that. 

“Does his family not want his homosexuality exposed? It’s hardly taboo,” Sherlock scoffed, handing Mycroft back the report. “Or perhaps, like you, Walters’ powers are a lot less minor than we are made to believe.”

  
A twitch in Mycroft’s facial expression was more what than Sherlock needed to know. He reminded his brother that his services were no longer needed and left the flat with a goodbye to John and Scotty. John made a comment about how some things never changed, while Sherlock gave the photos one last look. Normally he would have ignored his brother’s wishes, but since shooting a foreign businessman in the head, he didn’t want to take any chances. What would Scotty make of a godfather that didn’t abide by the law? 

 

“Best not to dwell on it, John,” Sherlock said, walking over to the window to pick up his violin. John claimed that Mary was looking for Scotty and so left his best friend alone in the flat. Sherlock was halfway through a Vivaldi concerto when the scent of spice, chocolate and blood red wafted into the apartment again. He furrowed his brows and said the only name that now came to mind. 

 

“Adelaide Evans.”

_______________

Adelaide Evans emerged from the cabbie at the end of Baker Street, preferring to walk to the cafe than to stop right in front of it. Ariel walked beside her, her fingers gripped tightly on her pea coat. She noticed that the little girl liked to do that every time they were walking out in public together. It was affectionate enough, but not as affectionate as Adelaide knew she could be. Two weeks together and she was still fumbling around the edges of motherhood. Ward-dom. Something.                      

 

“You think he’ll let us see his notes on the types of tobacco ash?” Ariel asked, practically skipping in front of Adelaide, throwing her slightly off balance, especially with a Buttercream cake with Orange Frosting in her hands. “He deleted them from the blog, because people seemed more interested in Dr. Watson, but I wish he hadn’t.”

 

“You should tell him that if we see him,” Adelaide said with a smile, Speedy’s red roof coming into their view. The last few weeks they had come by had been like clockwork. There would be great noise coming from 221B above, the sound of him pounding down the steps and then Sherlock would make his appearance at the door. Ariel would ask to go upstairs to see a shrunken head or gangrene-infested body parts while Adelaide went into Speedy’s to slice the cake, setting one aside for Sherlock. Then she would bring it up and he would mutter things like “redbeard” or “mum” or “bloody violets” while they ate. It was pleasant but slightly invasive, as Sherlock would point out things about her that she may or may not already know. 

 

This particular afternoon, Sherlock had just finished his Walnut and Prune cake, saying it wasn’t Adelaide’s best work. “Distracted?” He asked, while she plucked the strings of his violin. Ariel was in the kitchen, comparing paint samples from one of Sherlock’s more obvious cases. 

“Slightly depressed,” she said without batting an eyelash. 

“You’re doing much better than John did when he thought I died,” Sherlock said, setting down his plate and fork like he hadn’t devoured it like a madman. “But then again, I doubt that you have the ability to grow a moustache.”

 

Adelaide giggled and Sherlock surprised himself by actually making a joke that wasn’t at all offensive to anyone in the room. She looked up to the kitchen where Ariel seemed happy enough to look at Sherlock’s messy notes and experiments. Sherlock started to walk over to his chair, right in front of Adelaide, who put down the violin. 

 

“She’s lucky to have you as a friend,” she said, smiling fondly. “Ariel’s speaking in class again, making new friends. I’d say it was my influence, but I highly doubt that.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at that statement before turning to her. 

“Although I may act otherwise,” he admitted. “A superior mind does not a good influence make. Just ask my goddaughter.”

“But it never hurts,” Adelaide smiled, placing a hand briefly over Sherlock’s. 

 

Adelaide went into the kitchen to get Ariel ready to go home when a police siren blared from the street below. Sherlock went to the window despite knowing that it was Lestrade with a case. “What have you got?” He asked Greg before he took three steps into the flat. 

 

“Another one, exactly like the very “natural death” of the MP,” he said, sarcasm evident in his last sentence. “Body was just found. Kensington College.”

“Professor?” Sherlock asked. 

“Certainly not important enough for Mycroft to interfere,“ Lestrade scoffed like it was the most clever thing he and said all day. “Left something of a note, I thought you would be interested.”

“Text me the address and I’ll follow in a cab. Let John know, will you?” Sherlock said, and Lestrade nodded before he turned and left the flat, having no idea that Adelaide and Ariel were listening in the next room. Sherlock was already in his coat when Ariel ran into the living room. 

 

“Did he really leave a note?!” She asked with enthusiasm that was only explained by sugar. “A serial killer, how divine!” 

“Divine?” Adelaide echoed, raising her eyebrow. 

"Serial killings come in threes," Sherlock not so gently reminded her. Ariel frowned while Adelaide ruffled the collar of her coat. 

“Time to go, love,” she reminded her ward.

 

“Sherlock please, you must tell me all about it next week,” Ariel said as Adelaide started to push her towards the door, Sherlock following them in amusement. 

“Promise?” Sherlock shot Adelaide a look. She didn’t seem too interested, simply raising her hand to hail a cab. Up to him, then. He smiled at Ariel and winked. People liked it when he did that. 

“Promise.”

 

_______________

 

Professor Percy Hayes was the head of the History department in the college. Specialising in Celtic Mythology, most of the students admired him for his knowledge but laughed at his insanely intensive approach to druids and magic. He claimed that it was very much real, and it was that paranoia that eventually got to him. Other than that, he was an upright, upstanding guy.

 

Well, until now.

 

The forensics team was still on its way when Sherlock arrived at the scene. John had just finished up in the surgery and was now on his way. Lestrade was by the door to the professor's office as Sherlock got his first glance of the scene. The walls were almost overflowing with books, messy and arranged in no particular order. Some of the books seemed to have been hastily pulled from the walls, opened on the floor near the body. Black candles were lit in specific points in the room, the wax still cooling. The blood had wiped out most of the chalk on the floor, but Sherlock could still make out that Professor Hayes had drawn a triquetra on the floor, the candles placed on the end of the three points. The open book beside him detailed the practice of a protection spell--Professor Hayes was trying to use magic to protect himself.

 

"Ridiculous," Sherlock scoffed as John stepped in and made a beeline for the body. Clearly, the missing heart was the cause of death, but perhaps there was more.

"Right," John said. "There are a few defensive wounds on his arms, like he had them over his face to protect himself. A few burns, due to the wax and....oh. Come and have a look at this, Sherlock."

 

Sherlock turned from his study of the collection of sage, bat wings and anaconda fangs to see that John and found the note that Lestrade had promised him. Although it was probably less of a note than a scribble in his blood. It was written next to a feather, the same Philippine Eagle feather Sherlock had found on the first body. He picked it up and promptly bagged it, while John looked at the drawing on the floor. It looked a lot like circles intertwined together into a complicated weave or knot. Haynes must have drawn it a thousand times before to have drawn it so perfectly with his blood.

 

"Look familiar to you?" He asked Sherlock, who bit his lip and frowned, searching the inner recesses of his mind palace for anything on Celtic symbolism and mythology. Clearly something ritualistic was going on here. Something along the line of stolen hearts and eagle feather, but what was the connection? 

 

"Five folded knot," Sherlock commented, looking up the symbol on his phone. "Celtic symbol, symbolises the five elements--earth, water, air, fire and aether. Aether? Balance of the human spirit requires unity. I doubt the Professor would be this prosaic on his last moments. There must be another meaning."

 

"There's also this," John said, holding up the orange medicine bottle after he had stuffed a hand into the Professor's pocket. "Heart medication. Issued by a Dr. Rosalie Douglas. Sound familiar?"

 

"Well, I guess we are due to pay a doctor's visit," Sherlock said with a cheshire grin, striding out of the room. "Send your clowns in Lestrade, we have what we need here."

 

Sherlock made it a point to ignore the forensics team muttering about him as he and John left the office to hail a cabbie. Really, what was the point in hearing what the lesser-minded had to say?

_______________

 

John and Sherlock made it to the surgery in Clapham just before closing. Dr. Douglas was listed as a general practitioner in the posh surgery. It was like nothing John had ever practiced in. It was obviously a surgery that dealt with exclusive clientele, and one that had its own chemist. The secretary told them that Dr. Douglas was just with a patient, and could they tell her what was wrong?

 

"Crabs," Sherlock said, nudging his head towards John's...lower area. John rolled his eyes and crossed his legs. "Jeez," he muttered.

"Right. Last name?" She asked, looking down to consult a list.

"Hayes, Hamish Hayes," Sherlock said, just as the doctor's door opened to reveal...

 

"Mary?" John asked, confused. "What are you--is everything--where is...?"

 

Clearly his wife was just as surprised to find her husband in the sitting room, blinking at them. Ever since they spent Christmas at the Holmeses and John promised that he was okay with Mary's past, he had never had a chance to doubt her, and she never gave him one. But this wasn't like that. There was a careless innocence to this that John knew was anything but dastardly. Mary smiled and kissed her husband's cheek.

 

"I was just feeling a bit under the weather and had to consult my GP," she said, patting his hand. "Wouldn't want Scotty to catch anything off me. Everything's fine. I had a friend watch her for a bit."

"Never a good idea," Sherlock commented from behind John. It was no secret that Sherlock was more than happy to watch Scotty if needed. He couldn't promise the he wouldn't take her to crime scenes, however. "If you're quite finished with your little domestic, John? I believed we promised the doctor she could check on those crabs."

 

So John and Sherlock bid Mary goodbye with a kiss (from John, obviously) and entered Dr. Douglas' exam room. The doctor herself was impeccably dressed in a deep blue dress, her stethoscope hanging over her shoulders like an accessory. She had smooth, pale skin and soft, elegant fingers. Hardly the look of a killer.

 

"Anything I can help you with, gents?" She asked, looking up at them with fluttery long lashes as she put aside her paperwork. "Annie tells me you're Hamish Hayes and his partner, but I think I can recognise Sherlock Holmes and John Watson when I see them," she said with a smile. "Big fan of your blog, Doctor."

"Thank you," John said as Sherlock rolled his eyes and muttered 'of course she is.' While John kept her engaged, he took a sharp look around the room. _Medicine cabinet was locked, the key somewhere behind Rosalie's desk. Diploma from the Royal School of Medicine and Surgery, impressive. Framed photos of water, perhaps a calming image for her patients?_ "I'm sorry we couldn't meet at better circumstances, but we actually wanted to ask you a few questions about a couple of your patients. Forrest Walter and Percy Hayes?"

 

Rosalie seemed not to recognise the names, but a few clicks of her computer confirmed her of their status.

"Oh yes. Walter and Hayes. Yes, they were patients of mine. What of them?"

"Both were found dead in their homes, their hearts surgically cut from their chests," Sherlock said flatly, turning his steely gaze to the doctor behind the chair. "Your prescription pills were found in both their flats. Your thoughts?"

"What?" Rosalie asked, her nose flaring slightly at whatever accusation Sherlock was trying to make. "I will not confess to anything. It has to be a coincidence." Her friendly, open demeanour from earlier had quickly vanished into something harsh and threatening, her eyes boring holes into their souls as she lowered her chin.

 

"Alright, then where were you on the night of January 5th and 21st?" John asked, his hands poised to write in that notebook of his. It amused Sherlock to no end that John needed a notebook just to keep up with him.

"I was with my niece at home on both nights," she said, her features suddenly as sharp as they were defensive. "You can ask her. Now if you excuse me gentlemen, I have patients to attend to," she said, standing up and picking up some files. "Good day to you both."

 

Then she left the room in a huff, the door slamming behind her. Sherlock and John exchanged looks like they knew that it was going to happen.   
“What now?” John asked Sherlock as he handed his friend a book from the shelf and opened a few cabinets. 

“Go to Lestrade and have that alibi checked,” Sherlock said, closing the cabinets again when he found nothing of significance inside. “There’s not much of a pattern with just two murders, but there may be something in that Five Fold Knot. That book should have some details.”

John looked down at the volume in his hand. Sure enough, it was a book on Celtic symbols and rituals. It couldn’t just be a coincidence. Sherlock strode past John and out the door like the doctor had. 

“Where are you going?” John asked his friend, jogging after him. 

“It’s in the Knot, John! There’s something in the knot!” Sherlock called behind him, hailing a cabbie as John rolled his eyes. Show off. 

 

Once he spoke to Lestrade to confirm Rosalie Douglas’ alibi, John decided to head home. There was nothing better than coming home to one’s wife and daughter, especially after spending most of the day with Sherlock Holmes. Not that he would trade that for anything else. 

 

“Mary?” He asked, entering the door of the maisonette he and Mary managed to rent not too far from Baker Street. He says that like it was a major consideration, which at the time, it was not. The house was devoid of Scotty’s usual babble and Mary’s chatter, which was strange. The lights were still out. John’s military instincts kicked in, immediately telling him that something was wrong. 

Then he heard banging and Scotty’s loud cry fill the house. A rush of adrenaline pushed him forward and up the stairs, where a figure in dark clothing stood over Mary’s body, a scalpel in their hand. Scotty was in her crib, crying at the attacker like she was crying for her father. The door to the closet was locked with a cricket bat across the handles, he could hear the screams of a young girl inside. 

John panicked for a moment, not sure who to attend to first, but the intruder launched at him, scalpel about to join with his neck, but John was faster. He managed to dig the instrument into the intruder’s arm. Not enough to kill, but good enough to injure. Scotty’s cries were reached a fever pitch as the figure (smaller than John, surprisingly) gracefully turned over John and left the room, knowing full well that he would attend to his wife and daughter first. Rushing over to check Mary’s breathing, John dialled 999 first. Then he called Sherlock. 

_______________

 

Sherlock stared at the files and photos he had laid out on the wall behind the couch. Hayes’ death had left too many clues that coincided with Walter’s, not calling it serial killings was almost irresponsible. John had just texted that Rosalie’s alibi had checked out, so there must be something else, another connection, maybe? he was missing a huge, concrete piece of the puzzle here. The pattern was niggling at his brain, like a loose thread in his coat collar. 

 

_Hayes knew there was someone after him, hence the protection spell. The five folds represent the five elements—-five victims? How did the killer choose them?_

 

Then Sherlock turned his head as the open window shook with a gust of air. _She’s here_ he thought, taking a deep whiff of air. Raspberry and creamy chocolate mousse. His first case. The thrill of the chase, finding the truth. Never mind the happiness of the victim or the reward, it was the game that fascinated him the most. It was a game he was still playing until now, one that despite all the sacrifice and the madness that came with it, he still wanted to play. 

 

She came up the steps after a warm greeting to Mrs. Hudson, the landlady offering to slice some. Sherlock had barely moved when he glanced at Adelaide. He realised it was the first time he had seen her without her ward. 

“Sherlock,” she said with a kind smile. “I brought Raspberry and Chocolate Mousse, although I think you already knew that.”

  
“I did. Can’t sleep? I hardly think you should be leaving a ten year old to her own devices,” he said, observing her for signs of anything out of the ordinary. _Small cut on her right hand, probably from baking while distracted. Chocolate on her fingers, must resist the urge to lick it off. Feather in her pocket. Feather in her pocket. Philippine Eagle. Bracelet. Gold. Five Fold Knot. Five. Fold. Knot. Possible Victim? Killer?_

 

“Ariel is with her aunt tonight,” Adelaide said, stepping into the flat. “I just thought I would come in for a cuppa.” 

“What’s that in your pocket?” Sherlock asked, pointing at it with his bow, his mind racing, calculating the distinct possibility that the woman in front of him, the one that had…distracted him so perfectly with her baked goods, was a serial killer. 

“Oh, this?” She asked, holding it out. “It’s a feather from the Philippine Eagle. My mother, she…she always put one in my pocket when I left the the house. It’s supposed to be for luck or something. Silly, I know. But she was a…believer of Celtic Mythology.”

Sherlock blinked. Was that a confession? “And…the bracelet,” he said slowly, wondering how she fit into the game. 

“Five Fold Knot, to unify and balance,” she said, holding it up for him to see. There was a slight mockery in the way she said it, like she didn’t exactly believe in what the bracelet was for. And yet she wore it, like it meant everything to her. “Is everything alright, Sherlock?”

He took three strides forward, using his full height to tower over Adelaide’s smaller frame. 

“Where were you on the night of the 5th and 21st?” He asked her point blank, taking two steps forward and making her take two steps back.

“What?”  
 _Look at that,_ he said to himself. _Dilated pupils, rapid rise and fall of chest means a racing heart. Sentiment. Attraction. Why else would she come at such a late hour?_

 Sherlock was about to threaten her a little (perhaps use what he knew about her to get what he wanted) when his phone began to ring incessantly. Normally, there was nothing to distract him when he was on the case. Not even John could pull him out of a hot trail. Especially now when a not-so strong suspect was right under his nose. But there was something that told him that this wasn’t just any phone call and he answered. How very unlike him. 

“John, I may have just found the perfect suspect,” he said, looking pointedly at Adelaide like he couldn’t be talking about anyone else. 

“Mary’s been attacked,” John said, his tone grave and deadly serious. 

 

It was enough to get Sherlock out of the house and in the hospital in a matter of moments, dragging his suspect with him. He barked at John to text him where they were while he pulled his coat and scarf, yelling at Mrs. Hudson that they would be back. They were in the cab on the way when Adelaide’s mobile began to ring. Sherlock threw her a look when he saw the number. 

“Hello?” She asked tentatively. “Who is this?”  
“Adelaide, it’s me,” Ariel’s voice came through on the other line. “I…I’m at the hospital.”  
“Oh my god, Ariel! Is everything alright?” She asked, alarmed enough for her captor to look at her with surprise. Ariel sounded fine on the other end of the line, but she could hear beeps and hospital sounds. She wasn’t supposed to be in a hospital again so soon after. 

“No, I’m fine, I’m fine,” she said. “Aunt Mary had just come back when someone came into the house. She…she seems in pretty bad shape, but Scotty’s fine and Uncle John managed to hurt the person a bit…but we’re at the hospital. Can you…can you come pick me up?”

“Yes, of course, Sherlock and I are already on the way,” Adelaide said, turning to Sherlock for a second before hanging up. 

“So you’re connected to Mary Watson in some way,” Sherlock said, looking out the window like he was just trying to look cool. “She doesn’t have family, so friends. But you weren’t at the wedding.”  
“Maggie and Mary are close friends,” Adelaide explained. “She was at the wedding. That’s how Ariel found out about you and John. Mary babysits Ariel when her Aunt Ro can’t watch her. Would you mind telling me what’s going on, Sherlock?”

The consulting detective threw her a dark look as they pulled up to the hospital. “Let’s check on your ward first, shall we?” 

_______________

 

By the time Sherlock and Adelaide reached the waiting room, John was sitting there, nervously bouncing Scotty on his lap, despite the fact that she was asleep. Ariel was calling asleep on the chair by herself. John was the only one who seemed intensely worried.

 

“Ariel!” Adelaide exclaimed, running towards her ward like she had been the one who got hurt. “How is Mary?” Adelaide asked, as Sherlock sat calmly next to John, pulling Scotty from his friend’s lap before he rocketed his child through the roof.   
“The doctors say she was poisoned,” John said. “Just pumping her stomach, and she should be fine. But god, that was…that was terrifying. I mean, I’ve been in war, but…god.”

 

Everyone was quiet fot a few moments, the only sound being Scotty's babbling to Sherlock, like she was trying to tell her godfather that had just happened. Then John remembered what Sherlock had told him over the phone.

"Hang on, you said you found the killer?" He asked Sherlock. "And you just...let her go?"

"Not exaclty," Adelaide said, brushing Ariel's hair with her fingers.

"Suspect, I said I had a suspect," Sherlock corrected him. "But now more than ever, I think Adelaide has the missing information we need to solve the case. What do you know of the Five Fold Knot?"

 

Adelaide's fingers paused over Ariel's hair, like she was deciding wether or not she would tell the stories. Given the way she had acted earlier, she didn't seem to believe them, but if she really had to...

 

"The Five Fold Knot," she began. "If you believe it, is the symbol of the five major practitioner families in Britain. Each knot represnts an element, each element is a family. Air is Walter, but their name is originally pronounced Wiatr, for air walkers. Fire is the Hayes family, like the professor who died. Douglas is water, with a strong inclination to the craft and Evans is aether, the balancing element."

"And Arden?" Sherlock asked, because of course he knew everything about Mary's true past, including her name. John was about to ask where Sherlock got the name, but Adelaide spoke first.

 

"Earth," she said. "Its nice mythology, but hardly real. I spent most of my life running fro that kind of belief system, but it manages to catch up to me every time," she said with a sigh, sounding more tired than upset. Sherlock realized that Adelaide was as much likely to be a target as Mary had been.

"Why would someone want to kill members of each family?" John asked, clearly missing the part where Sherlock had revealed a part of his wife's true identity. That, or he was quite good at ignoring it.

 

"It would be for a ritual. One particularly gruesome, if it requires the deaths of the others," Adelaide said, not realizing that Ariel had been awake and listneing the whole time.

"A resurrection," she said, and Adelaide pulled her hand back in surprise. "Aunt Ro told me about it the other day. You take hearts from each family, a Virgin--"

"Walter," Sherlock concluded. He was no believer of the occult, but it was the pattern that their killer had chosen to follow.

"A Philosopher--"

"Hayes."

"A Warrior--"

"Mary," he said, giving John a look that said he would explain later while Scotty started falling asleep.

"A Healer and a Guardian," Ariel finished. "Exchange hearts for feathers of luck then burn them by the body so it may rise out of the ashes. I'm sure there's more to it, but that was all she would tell me about it."

"Christ, the killer could be out looking for the Guardian next," John said, finally picking up that by Warrior, they had meant Mary and her more than colorful past. Meanwhile, Sherlock was quiet, letting Scotty snuggle up to his arm while he slept. It was quite sweet.

 

**End of Chapter**


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Note: OH GOD. I completely forgot to post this last chapter. Apologies, reader.

Chapter Three

The following day, while Adelaide and Ariel had Scotty for the night, Sherlock walked into Barts with an orange bottle and Mary's stomach contents. Molly called him 'quite sweet' for doing it for John, and Sherlock quietly questioned the sanity of Molly Hooper. But he smiled anyway, studying the chemical components of the pills while the stomach contents were going through the Mass Spectrometer.

 

"Aha! There it is," Sherlock said, writing his findings down. "Herbal poison in the pills. Not enough to kill you, but enough for you not to notice if someone was trying to cut out your heart."

"Seems useful?" Molly said, like she knew what Sherlock was talking about. She was used to it.

"Don't make jokes, Molly," Sherlock said, looking up from his work. "You, how- ever, look a lot less boring as usual. Date?"

"As a matter of fact," Molly said with a smile. "Now off you go, I need to close up before I get on my date."

So off Sherlock went, the conclusion of the case on the tip of his tongue. He had done some research on the rituals Ariel had mentioned, performing some himself to some ridiculous extent, and realised it was hokum. While the Celtic Wiccans believed in the power of magic, the rituals were to induce the placebo effect on their practitioners, to help them grieve and move on. It was a wonderful sentiment, but for someone to take them this seriously meant desperation. The Resurrection Ritual came in three hearts or five, the killer had a setback with Mary, so was probably changing their plans to three. But who were they trying to resurrect?

His strongest (and strong was an understatement) suspect had a verified alibi, and all three victims went to Rosalie Douglas' chemist to have the prescription filled. Something niggled at the back of his mind, the doors of his mind palace rattling for attention.

Sherlock actually had to stand in the middle of the street to think.

_Forrest Walter. Wiatr. Polish origin meaning wind. Forest Wind. Virgin. Percy Hayes. Irish, obviously. Hero of Fire. Practitioner. Philosopher. Mary Morstan. Anna Gabrielle R. Arden. French? Dutch variation Aarden clay, stone, earth. Warrior. Rosa- lie Douglas. Rose of Dark Water. Rose. Rose. Ro. Aunt Ro. Lost her sister, Maggie. Healer._

Who else could it be? Sherlock frowned. When the facts were against you, sometimes taking a proactive stance was enough. He needed to find the next possible victim and catch his suspect in the act. But who?

_Guardian. Aether. Heaven--? Breath of the gods. Ifans in Welsh. Evans in English. Adelaide Evans. Kind nobility, breath of the gods, Ariel's guardian. The last victim._

Sherlock knew exactly what to do next.

* * *

"Oh, make yourself at home," Adelaide said, turning away from Sherlock as she rushed to the kitchen of her flat. "Did you want tea?"

Sherlock crossed the threshold of Adelaide's home, slightly overwhelmed. Any one's home is reflection of their true selves, and here, everything was laid out for him to read. Letters, unopened and addressed to Adelaide from someone in Wales. Her estranged mother, obviously. A photo on the mantlepiece of her and who he presumed was Maggie DouglasDanes with an unlit candle placed beside it. A small altar for a lost friend. Everything else about the house read comfortable and cozy. Large sofa, warm lighting and woven blankets matched with the framed feathers and the fresh flowers. Everything was welcoming and caring, like the Guardian that she was. Going into the kitchen was not an option for Sherlock. Who knows how distracted he would be if he came to the origins of those blasted baked goods? Sherlock could smell medical equipment and the scents of experimentation in the other room. Ariel's lab. There was a foldaway crib in the side of the living room, where he spotted his niece playing with soft toys and chewing them like it would reveal all of its secrets to her. Atta girl.

"I take it you're here to see Scotty?" Adelaide asked, coming out of the kitchen with a tray of tea and lavender biscuits. The scent brought Sherlock to focus, to concentrate on what he had to do. There was something that clearly bothered Adelaide, made her uneasy. It was all over her face, her hands shaking slightly despite being able to cart a cake halfway across London weekly.

"Yes, I'm apparently not allowed to see her without supervision," Sherlock said like it was the most ridiculous thing he had ever heard. As if to prove his point, he plucked Scotty from the crib, the child delighted to see her godfather again, her hands immediately on his face.

"John said you've dropped her once," Adelaide said, handing Scotty a biscuit to chew on. She drooled.

"I did not drop her. I nearly dropped her," Sherlock corrected, making Adelaide laugh. She had a nice laugh, one that did not rattle his brain like Janine's used to.

"Is Ariel here?" Sherlock asked. Usually she would be all over him with ques tions, he had promised to share with her the details of the crime.

"Tonight is Aunt Ro's night," Adelaide said sipping her tea, trying to be casual. Ah. There it was. The source of her unease. Time to distract then attack.

"Why are you wearing lipstick?" Sherlock suddenly asked. "When I rang, you weren't wearing any."

"Oh," she said, seeing the stain on her china. "I dunno. I just put it on, I guess."

"And yet you are wearing your house slippers," Sherlock pointed out, eyeing the soft soled slippers with some sort of misappropriation of animal face painted on it.

"To make the lipstick seem effortless," She laughed to diffuse her nerves. Sherlock reached foward and placed a hand on her wrist on the pretence of calming her. But he used the opportunity to slyly check her pulse. It was skyrocketing, more than it should.

"Is Ariel not supposed to be at her Aunt's?" He asked her, making sure his voice was soft enough to comfort her.

"No, no, she is," Adelaide sighed, obviously flustered. "Its just that...Ariel still gets night terrors sometimes. Bad night terrors. I can handle them myself, usually, but Rosalie likes to take an...unusual approach."

Interesting that she would suddenly use her full name. Sherlock wanted to yell at her do just go on, but felt hat would be counter productive.

"She uses this herbal medicine to make her pass out cold," Adelaide said. "Like a tranquilliser, but so powerful Ariel barely remembers being at her aunt's the next day. I've tried talking to her about it, but she's so convinced that it works, since its one of those...ancient recipes."

So there it was. The reason why Rosalie had an alibi in the first place. Ariel knew she was at her aunts, but if pressed, would not be able to remember anything about it, because Rosalie had drugged her. The lie in the alibi. But that also meant one thing.

"Wiggins," he barked, suddenly on his phone. "Any news?"

"She just left the flat, boss," he answered, his voice caught in a low whisper. "Carryin' a kid on her shoulder. Drugged, she was carryin' her like some sorta caveman or sumthing."

"Excellent," Sherlock replied. "Follow them to the cemetery. Ill meet you there." With one look at Scotty in his arms, he handed her back to Adelaide. She was suspicious of him.

"Big case?" She asked him, having very little idea of what was going on. No clue that her ward was in danger, that he had set her up. Sort of.

"Unfortunately," Sherlock said, pulling on his scarf just to look especially cool. "Winter brings out the worst in all of us,” he said, turning with a sweep of his coat, out the door in seconds.

"Call the Yard!" Adelaide yelled after him, the words obviously falling on deaf ears. She bounced Scotty a little on her lap. "And that, love," she said. "Is why we never have a crush on a man with a pretty coat."

* * *

The events that followed happened much quicker than Sherlock had anticipated. He found Wiggins hiding behind one of the larger gravestones, as Rosalie started the fire over her sister's grave. It took Sherlock a second to realize that they were not far from his own false grave. The smell of sage filled the air, a triskelion drawn over the gravestone in chalk. Ariel, still out from the tranquilliser, was lying on the ground with a blanket wrapped around her. Why was Rosalie still trying to take care of her? The last heart missing belonged to a Douglas. Ariel was the only possible one. Rosalie tossed the hearts into the fire, the blood squelching as they burned into the fire, making the flames stronger.

"Rosalie," Sherlock said, signalling to Wiggins with a nod. "That's enough. Maggie is dead. She’s not coming back. 

It took her a second to recognise Sherlock, studying him, trying to understand what he wanted.

"A scholar like you will never understand," she said, brandishing a knife from her pocket. "You look down on magic as a ridiculous practice, but it gives anyone more hope than science ever can. People die, thats it. But magic...magic understands that you lost someone. You can still get them back."

There was a definite glint of crazy in her eyes. Sherlock was glad she didn't have a gun. The scalpel could still be dangerous, though. In the corner of his eye, he spotted Wiggins pulling Ariel into his arms in a quick swoop, surprising Sherlock with the strength the junkie managed to possess. Confident that she was okay, Sherlock lunged for Rosalie, his hands grappling with hers.

"Just let me do this for her! Let go!!" Rosalie yelled as Sherlock pulled her ams to the side.

Oh. Oh. Self-sacrifice. The highest form of love. Desperate.

"Ariel is going to be fine," Sherlock said, knocking the scalpel out of her hands be fore she hurt herself with it. "She's in good hands. She can move on."

"No, no she can't," Rosalie said, her resolve dropping as her legs felt like jelly. "She can't...Maggie."

And then she had collapsed, her own tranquillisers working against her. Sentiment, once again has proved itself to be wanting. Behind him, the helicopters and the squad cars blared and lit up the entire lot, revealing Wiggins and Ariel, who was just coming to.

"Perfect timing, George," Sherlock called to the descending helicopter.

"Its Greg!" Lestrade called back from a megaphone. "Now Sherlock, step away from the serial killer!" 

"Oh relax, she's passed out," Sherlock said as Greg came forward with the cuffs. "I would put out that fire, if I were you, though. Hearts may just be perfectly flammable."

Now if only John had been here to blog all about it. Sherlock resigned himself in the fact that he could tell it as he wanted. Maybe he could write the entry himself.

* * *

"Sherlock, no!" Adelaide gasped, entering John and Mary's kitchen with a birth day candle. It was a bright, summer day, and everyone was outside to celebrate Scotty Watson's first birthday. John and Mary pulled out all the stops, including a trampo line. Greg even brought his kids, who Sherlock had to admit seemed a lot brighter than their father. Mrs. Hudson was just happy to see Scotty, who laughed and giggled like the most perfect baby in the world. Ariel even had a friend over, the both of them taking full advantage of the trampoline. Molly and her date (a nonsociopath named Andrew who looked nothing like Tom) were blowing bubbles. John had asked Ade laide to get the cake, at the same time wondering where his best friend had run off to.

Sherlock looked up innocently (or about as innocent as he could) withdrawing his finger.

"You know what you were doing," she said, knocking him aside to put the candle in the cake. "You were trying to deprive your goddaughter of Swiss chocolate and marshmallow frosting."

"Oh please. Scotty is a year old. She can barely process bananas, let alone chocolate cake," he said, watching carefully over Adelaide's shoulders as she wrote the dedication on top with purple icing. 

"You know, I would never guess that you were such a cake person," she said, placing the candle over the b in birthday, lighting it with a cigarette lighter John had con fiscated from his pocket ages ago. "But you always meet us for a slice or two when Ariel and I drop by. John says you’ve gained two stone since I met you."

"One," Sherlock said with a pull of his lips. "And a quarter."

"John and Mary think two," she said, picking up the cake from the counter and started walking to the backyard. "I think two and a half."

"I don't normally eat cake," Sherlock explained, following her. He didn't actually give a tuppence about his figure, but he was never this frivolous with it either. No need to mention that cake was the only food that he ate when high. "I've watched you bake, and much to my dismay, there's nothing special to your methods. But why does Scotty's cake smell like a campfire and have me picture dandelions?"

Adelaide paused, the yard and the whole party one, two steps away. Then she smiled, looking up at Sherlock. "Magic?" She teased, walking out and calling John and Mary's attention. Sherlock stood at the threshold of the backyard.

"Magic," he scoffed, rolling his eyes.

 

END

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! :)


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